


Secrets

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Break Up, Happy Ending, Jealousy, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Secret Relationship, Sort Of, pseudo historical really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-07-23 14:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16160798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: Many things can change in five years.And then some things never change.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So… this. Well, I’ve said before my lack of self control is appealing and this plot bunny was rather insistent so… well, here we are.  
> Enjoy?

“Tired of playing pirates, I see.”

Sherlock scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Oh, make no mistake, brother mine. Just because I serve in her Majesty’s navy now, it doesn’t make me any less of a pirate,” he states with a smirk and his brother sighs before gesturing for the butler to leave and for Sherlock to take a seat in front of the fire.

He’s cold, even if he’d never admit it out loud and so he’s grateful for the extra warmth of the fire. He had already forgotten how awfully cold and misty the days at London are, having spent the last five years in the american colonies, or rather, sailing the sea near the colonies. The change from pirate to officer of the Queen hasn’t been as difficult as he could have imagined and it had the added bonus of allowing him back home after so many years away, although he would never admit he has missed London (and his brother).

“You’re doing fine, it seems,” Mycroft comments, almost off handedly. “Would have been nice getting a letter letting me know you lived but, you know, whatever.”

Sherlock’s lips curve upwards briefly. “I was a bit preoccupied, but I’m sure Captain Lestrade kept you updated on our exploits?” In truth, it never occured Sherlock to write, particularly not after the harsh words he and his brother had exchanged during their last _conversation._ His brother hadn’t been happy seeing him go off to the colonies, on a pirate ship nonetheless, but as Sherlock had pointed out at the time, it had partially been Mycroft’s fault: he was the one who introduced him to Captain Lestrade in the first place and so really, Mycroft’s poor taste in men was at fault when it came to Sherlock’s poor life decisions.

Not that he thinks it was a bad life decision, per se. He certainly had a lot of fun and now he’s back on the side of the _law,_ surely that counts for something?

Busy as he is contemplating all this, it takes Sherlock a while to realize his brother hasn’t said a word back. He frowns, looking in the direction of the older man, only now realizing how tense he has gone. He didn’t think he was truly dead, did he? Surely Lestrade mentioned at some point he was perfectly fine?

“I haven’t gotten any letters from your Captain in a very long time, Sherlock,” Mycroft says finally, aiming to sound detached and failing miserably, sounding heartbroken instead. Sherlock frowns, confused by the statement.

“You… he… what?” he asks rather eloquently and scowls immediately after, annoyed at himself.

Mycroft smirks and thankfully doesn’t comment. “I’m afraid Captain Lestrade and I… we haven’t had any communication ever since you left a half a decade ago.”

Surely not. Of course Sherlock never actually asked, because his brother’s love life wasn’t a subject he was particularly interested in and discussing relationship’s matters with his Captain wasn’t something that he had wanted to do, but he had thought-- when they left it had seemed--

“I see,” he says finally, because there’s really nothing else for him to say, is there? “I’m sorry,” he adds after a beat, uncertain about what he’s apologizing for. “I’ll try to write more often from now on.”

Mycroft smiles briefly, but it’s the saddest thing he’s ever seen. Sherlock’s heart constricts painfully inside his chest, but he’s at lost of what he could possibly say to make things better. Before he can think of anything though, the door to the study gets open quite abruptly, startling Sherlock and making him jump.

“Papa, papa!” a cheerful boy exclaims, running in the direction of Mycroft, holding what looks like a plushed bear in his chubby little hands. “Look what mama got me!”

“Very nice, Adrien. But what have I said about rushing into my study without knocking?”

The boy bites his lip, looking appropriately contrite, staring at his feet. “I’m sorry, papa,” he murmurs softly, before looking up at Mycroft once more. “I’ll knock next time.”

Mycroft smiles, all affectionate, the melancholy that had taken over him just a few seconds ago seemingly vanished. For his part, Sherlock can do nothing but gape, looking a lot like a fish out of water.

“Sorry about that,” a new voice interrupts as a woman peeks into the room. “Adrien was just excited to show you his new toy,” she says affectionately as the boy beams at her, before rushing towards her, wrapping his arms around her middle. “And look how rude we’re both being!” she exclaims, noticing Sherlock’s presence, smiling at him. “Say hello to your long lost uncle, Adrien.”

The boy blinks, confused and Sherlock just continues gaping at him. “Miss Brown?” he asks, surprised at the woman’s presence and she laughs delicately.

“Not anymore, I’m afraid,” she says, throwing a quick smile in Mycroft’s direction. “And Anthea would do just fine, seeing we’re family now,” she adds with a wink and Sherlock turns to look at his brother, uncertain of how to react.

“What-- when--- how--?” Anthea is giggling softly, her son alternating between watching her and Sherlock curiously and Mycroft is smirking, looking awfully amused.

“Well, we shall leave you gentlemen to carry on with your conversation. It seems you’ve got plenty to talk about, huh?” Anthea says, smiling softly, a twinkle in her eye Sherlock isn’t sure how to interpret. “Come on, Adrien. Say goodbye to your uncle.”

“‘Bye,” the boy whispers softly, looking terribly confused but curious and yet obeying his mother without a protest. Sherlock watches him go, trying to find any similarities between the toddler and his brother, but he must say he doesn’t take after him at all.

He turns back to Mycroft, who’s smiling fondly, staring in the direction in which his _wife_ and _son_ disappeared.

Good god. A wife _and_ a son. “What the hell?!” Sherlock demands after a beat, earning himself a chuckle from his brother.

“We have much to talk about, it seems,” Mycroft says, leaning back on his seat. “You’re not the only one with stories to tell, brother dear.”

Sherlock huffs.

Indeed not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Hope you’ll enjoy it ;)

“He’s what?!” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically and Greg tries to make sense of the younger man’s words: surely he hasn’t just said what he thought he did? Because that would make zero sense. There’s simply no way in this world that Sherlock’s words are true and yet--

It’s been five years, hasn’t it? So many things can change in five years.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to write to Mycroft, it’s just that he never knew what to say. The way he had left had been far from ideal and he had thought a simple “I’m sorry” would never made the cut. Still, he supposes he should have written, if only to explain his abrupt departure and he supposes maybe Mycroft would have understood: being a wanted man makes you have to be ready to run at any given time.

Which is why the life of a pirate isn’t exactly conductive for long term relationships and while that had never really bothered Greg, meeting Mycroft had definitely changed that.

That’s also part of the reason for his long absence: after he left, he had come to realize he did not care for a life on the run anymore, no matter what his sense of adventure said. He’d probably bore to dead in your average office job, but he found that he was willing to do that and more, for the chance to be with the man he loved. So he had beginning working on a plan that would allow him to do exactly that, reach a middle ground of sorts, although is asked how successful he was… well, he supposes that’s up for discussion.

But he’s back at London, isn’t he? What’s more, this time he doesn’t actually have to hide and surely that counts for something?

“You didn’t write,” Sherlock accuses, eyes hard. “Five years and not a single letter. What did you expect him to do?”

Not marry, that’s for sure. After all, hadn’t their last conversation been filled with promises of eternal love and devotion? Of course, promises whispered in the dark of the night after some very healthy but tiring… ah… exercise can’t be taken too seriously, a fact Greg has always been quite aware of, but he had thought--  he had believed--

Well, never mind that. It seems he was thoroughly mistaken.

“I see,” he murmurs dejectedly, feeling his stomach turn unpleasantly. He’s not sure what was he expecting when he first came back to London, but it certainly hadn’t been  _ this.  _ “Well, if you excuse me, I have a meeting with Admiral Watson,” he says and hurries to exit the room, not giving Sherlock enough time to reply. He knows the younger man is not done reprimanding him (in his own particular way) but Greg is in no mood to face any recriminations: the guilt and heartbreak he feels ought to be enough penance for his sins.

Married and with a child. How the hell did that happen? And not a terribly young child, based on Sherlock’s tale, so the marriage isn’t nowhere near  _ recent.  _ Hadn’t Mycroft waited for him, not even for a little while? Hadn’t he hold onto hope for at least a year, like Greg  did for five whole years? Had he meant so very little to the other man that he had been so easily replaced?

He rubs his breastbone absentmindedly, attempting to chase the pain away even if he knows it’s an useless exercise. The pain he feels won’t fade away, no matter what he does: his only hope is that time will make it bearable, but it’ll never disappear.

It’s a dark prospect, truth to be told.

Perhaps it’s exactly what he deserves, after all.

* * *

 

Having come to the party was a mistake, Greg realized early on, but he had been desperate for some kind of distraction. Now he’s here, trapped, forced to entertain several lords and ladies, answering their silly questions even though they don’t actually expect a real answer, since they understand little of the subject.

From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Sherlock, who’s being his usual difficult self, terrorizing whoever dares to even approach him. He’s fond of his first mate, not only because of his relationship to Greg’s beloved, but because he’s actually a good man with many hidden talents, but he’s a right terror when he wants to be.

He’s also Greg’s perfect excuse to escape his current company.

With an embarrassed smile, he hurries to say his goodbyes and hurries towards Sherlock, letting out a relieved sigh once he’s out of earsight. He has no doubt Sherlock will probably continue biting his ear off now, but he thinks that’s a far kinder fate than being bored to death by people who think too highly of themselves and are, in truth, all kinds of boring.

“Another daring escape, I see,” Sherlock tells him, once he has made it to his side. “Those are a different kind of mortal peril, aren’t they?”

“Some aren’t that bad,” Greg argues, although privately he agrees. Still, it’d be better to practice a more diplomatic approach to pretty much everything, from now on. “I’m afraid this is our life now, Sherlock.”

The younger man huffs. “So you say. May I remind you all this charade of turning on a new leaf was your way of getting back into my brother’s bed?” Greg glares at him, but Sherlock carries on, undeterred. “And since that’s no longer possible, maybe you’d like to reconsider--”

“I do not--”

“Gentlemen,” a newcomer greets politely and Greg hurries to put on his best smile before turning to the Admiral. “I wasn’t sure if I’d see you here tonight,” he adds, his attention mostly on Sherlock, making him smile coyly.

“Admiral Watson,” he greets, a light blush dusting his cheeks. “How could I miss it, when you went through the trouble of personally inviting me?”

The Admiral grins, looking thoroughly pleased with himself and Greg throws a pointed stare in Sherlock’s direction, which gets promptly ignored with a dismissive huff. Greg grins, figuring it’s time to make himself scarce since it seems Sherlock is in good hands now.

Before he can come up with a suitable excuse though, his eyes land on a familiar figure that has just arrived. Mycroft looks as well put together as ever, even more impossibly handsome. He’s wearing one of his bespoke suits, the kind that always made Greg want to drag the other man somewhere where he could take them off, but he’s all to aware of Mycroft’s hand on the small of the back of his companion, a reminder he’s not Greg’s anymore.

“Perhaps it’s best if we leave now, Captain,” Sherlock says, startling him. He looks honestly reluctant to leave and Admiral Watson looks most confused, but Greg is moved by Sherlock’s shown of concern.

“It’s fine,” he argues with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I… I’m just going to step out for a bit. Get some air.” Sherlock looks at him, unconvinced and Greg sends a reassuring smile in his direction. “It’s fine, really. Please, do carry on.”

He doesn’t wait for his companions to reply, turning on his heel and practically fleeing the room. He can feel someone’s eyes on his back, but he does not dare to turn to see who it is.

All he needs right now, is to get as far away as possible.

* * *

 

He had met Ms. Brown a couple of times before he had to leave, both times at Mycroft’s home. She was a most peculiar woman, set on handling her long dead father’s business, not caring one bit about whether or not that was the  _ proper _ thing to do.

Greg had actually liked her: she was terribly smart and witty and with an amazing sense of humor. She was pretty too and a good friend of Mycroft’s, something that had worried Greg just the lightest bit: he wasn’t a jealous man by nature, or at least he hadn’t thought so, but at Mycroft’s side he had learned quite a few things about himself, hadn’t he?

Still, Mycroft had put that particular fear at rest: he had claimed that, while he was very fond of Ms. Brown (they both were often considered too peculiar by their peers and so they had bonded over it), there was no romantic interest on either of their sides.

Well. Clearly that hadn’t been completely true.

Greg had intended to avoid Mycroft the rest of the evening, but he soon finds himself going back into the room, spying on Mycroft despite his best attempts not to do so. Yet more lords and ladies approach him and Greg might even flirt a little with a few of the ladies, but his heart isn’t really into it and his eyes keep straying in Mycroft’s direction. Try as hard as he might, it seems he has eyes for no one else.

Ms. Brown (or Mrs. Holmes, he supposes) remains at Mycroft’s side for the best part of the evening, every now and then straying away to strike conversation with someone, sometimes even conceding a few dances to those gentlemen brave enough to approach her. She and Mycroft make a rather dashing couple, truth to be told and Greg imagines their son must be an adorable little thing: does he has Mycroft’s eyes? What about his nose, that he loathes so? Or his hair, that Greg had always found so lovely when it curled naturally but Mycroft detested it with all his heart?

Greg sighs, trying to tamp down his longing. There’s no use in torturing himself with the past, nor with the things that can no longer be, but he can’t help the wave of bitterness that settles over him.

From the corner of his eye he catches Ms. Brown (she’ll never be Mrs. Holmes inside his head, it seems) leaving her husband’s side briefly, but Greg’s attention remains focused on the man. He’s discussing something with a couple of older gentleman, one eyebrow arched elegantly, signaling he’s not exactly pleased with what he’s hearing and Greg smiles briefly, thinking about how well he still knows the other man’s gestures, how well he can still read him, almost as if no time had passed at all.

But time has passed, hasn’t it?

“Captain Lestrade,” a voice greets from next to him, making him jump. Ms. Brown smiles, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Glad to see you’re back in London. I would have thought you’d have dropped by the house by now, but it seems you’re a busy man nowadays.”

Greg can’t help the glare he throws in her direction, annoyed at her words and her tone, but the woman just continues smiling, still looking thoroughly amused. “I’m afraid so, Ms. Brown. Or Mrs. Holmes, I suppose. I heard congratulations are in order?”

“They’d be a little late,” she replies easily with a shrug. “But thank you.” She’s looking at something (or rather someone) behind Greg and it’s not hard to imagine who she’s looking at. “I do hope you can join us for breakfast someday. Or dinner. Or tea. Or, you know, whatever.” Her grin widens at Greg’s evident confusion. “Mycroft would have asked you himself but well… you know how he is.”

Greg narrows his eyes at her, trying to figure out what her game is. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Nonsense!” she exclaims merrily. “Besides, Adrien would love to meet you. He’s so terribly excited about his pirate uncle and he’d love to hear whatever tales you want to share.” She looks-- honest. There’s something in her eyes that Greg can’t interpret, but she doesn’t seem to be mocking him or his misfortune in anyway.

“I… I suppose I could make time,” he agrees finally, offering her a tentative smile that she returns full force. “I’d very much like to meet your boy,” he says and finds that’s very much true. He and Mycroft couldn’t have had kids of their own, of course, but he’d love any child of Mycroft’s as much as if he was his too.

“It’s a date then,” Mrs. Holmes says, all bright smiles. “Til later, Captain Lestrade.”

He bows his head to her politely and she offers him one last smile before going back to her husband. Greg watches her go, all too aware of Mycroft’s eyes now fixed on him and his heart constricts painfully inside his chest when the woman finally makes it back to Mycroft’s side and he places a hand around her waist, pulling her close so he can whisper something on her ear.

Greg turns away, feeling his heart shattering into even smaller pieces.

And then he finally does flee the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> Greg’s explanation for his prolonged silence is… well, not a terribly good one, as Mycroft will eventually point out but bear with me ;) I swear there’ll be a happy ending ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And he’s a new chapter! It’s a short little thing, I know, but I just wanted to write a bit of Anthea’s POV, clarify some of the plot and then we can move on to the next chapter :P  
> Anyway, enjoy!

Getting ready for bed is a ritual that rarely ever changes, comfortable for its predictableness. Mycroft isn’t a talkative man by nature, always having prefered to keep his own council and Anthea has never been one for small chit chat, so the silence between them is usually comfortable.

That’s not the case tonight, though.

She knows Mycroft is…  _ upset _ about her little stunt from earlier, but honestly, what did he expect her to do? Simply stand by, watching him lose his one chance at true love?

She couldn’t possibly.

“You didn’t tell Sherlock,” she says finally, once she has put on her nightgown and climbed into bed. Mycroft is still fussing over his clothes, always one for keeping them in perfect condition and normally Anthea would use these few minutes before he comes to bed to read for a while, but not tonight.

“Whatever you mean?” he asks, still not facing her, his back a very tense line although his tone remains flippant and Anthea rubs her temples tiredly. In all honesty, it might be better to leave this conversation for tomorrow, seeing how late it is, but chances are that if she doesn’t speak now, she won’t get the chance later.

“About Adrien,” she replies simply and Mycroft just looks at her from the corner of his eye, before shaking his head once. She already knew, of course, but the confirmation annoys her anyway. “Why would you do that?” she demands, slightly frustrated. 

“What would have been the point of marrying you if we’re going to tell everyone Adrien isn’t really mine?” he replies airily and Anthea huffs.

“We both know that’s not the reason,” she argues darkly, crossing her arms over her chest. “My reputation is perfectly safe with your brother, since he doesn’t care for that one bit. Wouldn’t have been running around with pirates if he did.”

Mycroft sighs, finally finishing with his clothes and so no longer able of continue avoiding Anthea’s gaze. “What do you want me to say, Anthea? I didn’t know… I just… why does it matter? Adrien might not be mine by blood, but he’s my son as far as I’m concerned.”

“You know I’m not challenging that,” she replies, trying to keep her tone calm and reasonable, knowing that losing her temper will do nothing but get Mycroft to clam up. “But you knew he’d tell Lestrade about the marriage and the child and what do you think he’d make of that, huh?”

“It matters not,” Mycroft argues, crossing his arms in front of him too. “When he left me five years ago, he lost any claim he might have had on me and the way I live.”

God, this is going exactly as she expected it to, but she was hoping it wouldn’t. “Mycroft, you know how this looks?” she asks and hurries to carry on before he can even open his mouth to speak. “It looks like there was something going on between us all the while you were with him.”

Mycroft pursues his lips in displeasure, but he doesn’t argue her point. She’s right, he knows but it remains to be seen if he’s willing to do something about the misconception. “It doesn’t matter,” Mycroft repeats, climbing into bed, his back to Anthea. 

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose in an attempt to chase away her incoming headache. “I understand your wish to…  _ punish _ him, for the way he left you. But this is most unfair Mycroft, particularly because you must understand _ he had to _ .”

Mycroft huffs, turning on his side so he’s facing her once more. “ _ He had to _ ?” he demands angrily. “He had to leave in such manner, without even bothering to leave me a note? What about a letter, once he was safe? What about any sign of him being alive and well in all these five years?” he’s angry, but tired too and Anthea can see how red rimmed his eyes are, how hard he’s trying to keep the tears at bay and she sighs, supposing she can let the matter rest for tonight.

She offers him her hand, which he takes and squeezes softly. It’s not much in terms of comfort, of course, but neither has ever been the kind to give other type of displays of emotional support or appreciate being given them.

She turns off the night lamp on her side of the bed, throwing the room into darkness, no sound but their combined breathing audible. She thinks of her son, safely sleeping just a couple of rooms away and she thinks of how badly things could have gone, hadn’t Mycroft offered to step in. She couldn’t have cared less about her reputation, but Adrien’s future could have been… quite grim.

And because she appreciates everything Mycroft has done for them, she’s determined to help him find the happiness he deserves. She knows he was madly in love with the pirate Captain, had confessed as much to her once upon a time and while she understands his reluctance to risk getting hurt all over again, she thinks the risk is well worth it.

Convincing Mycroft of that… well, that might not be as easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone? I know many had already predicted where this was going, but I hope it was an enjoyable read regardless. I’m thinking of having Mycroft’s POV in the next chapter and then, probably, we’ll just have another chapter to go, if I manage to fit everything I want to write. I don’t want to drag this for too long, although I hope I won’t make it look unrealistic by resolving it too quickly :P  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter!  
> To be honest, I’m not 100% sure of this one, since it was meant to end on a brighter note but well… here we are :P  
> Enjoy!

There’s laughter coming from the drawing room when Mycroft comes home.

It’s not an uncommon occurrence, since Adrien was born. Anthea used to entertain her very few friends there and when Adrien had been a baby, they had received a lot of visits from them. Some family members showed up too, but considering the circumstances of their marriage, Anthea’s parents weren’t exactly fond of him and so they rarely visited.

Which is for the best, really.

He recognizes Sherlock’s voice soon enough and he sighs after noticing his brother is telling another embellished tale of his  _ adventures.  _ Adrien is fascinated with Sherlock’s stories, as any four-year-old would be, probably, but Mycroft does fear he’ll decide he wants to pursue a life of piracy too.

He suspects Anthea might not be very happy with such outcome.

Nor would Mycroft, truth to be told, considering his own not very pleasant experiences with  _ pirates,  _ his brother included. And Adrien might not be his by blood, but he’s still his  _ son  _ and the last thing he wants is him running around with unsavory companions.

And speaking of unsavory companions…

He recognizes Gregory’s-- no, Captain Lestrade’s voice as soon as he speaks, his heart doing a funny flip. He’s not pleased with the man’s presence, he sternly informs his heart, but it ignores him merrily, continuing with its somersaults and Mycroft scowls at nothing in particular.

The man has always been a threat to his mental health and his peace of mind, but just as all those years ago, he finds himself incapable of simply continuing his way to his rooms, passing the drawing room without looking inside. Effective as a siren call, the Captain’s voice lures him in, to an end just as painful as a being drown.

“Evening,” he greets in a pleasant tone, telling himself he’s going to stay calm and reasonable. “What-- wait a minute, is that a sword?!” he demands to know, his previous plans having escaped through the window at the sight of Adrien holding what looks like a sword but can’t possibly be one, because surely nor Sherlock nor Gregory are imprudent enough to give a child one?

“It’s a wood one,” Sherlock replies casually, waving his own wooden sword dismissively. “We’re recreating a fight.”

“Look, papa! I’m a pirate too!”

Yes and Mycroft is about to have a heart attack. “So I see, dear. And what does your mother has to say of this… development?”

“My  _ dearest _ sister-in-law had some previous commitment,” Sherlock declares solemnly. “Despite the fact she was the one who invited us over in the first place,” he adds, sounding slightly annoyed. “She asked if we could look after Adrien for a while and well… I figured we could play with the newest toys I got him.”

Mycroft would be moved by his brother’s evident affection for his nephew but Sherlock’s idea of toys appropriate for a boy of Adrien’s age, isn’t the same as Mycroft’s. “While I appreciate your attempts at playing doting uncle--”

“It’s perfectly safe, Mycroft,” Captain Lestrade interrupts, smiling. “They’re sturdy, of course, but other than maybe some light bruising, Adrien is in no danger of hurting himself whatsoever.”

“I’m the one who’ll be getting bruised,” Sherlock points out, rubbing his arm absentmindedly. “My dear nephew is showing some promise in this pirating business.”

Adrien grins, delighted at the praise and Mycroft takes a deep breath, knowing he has lost this fight but unwilling to lose the war. “Of course he is,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “In the future, kindly consult with Anthea or with me before buying Adrien anything.”

Sherlock huffs, picking up Adrien, earning himself a squeal from the boy. “Come on Adrien, let’s find somewhere else to play, with no spoilsports in sight.”

Adrien giggles, delighted by Sherlock carrying him and Mycroft glares, but doesn’t protest. God knows Adrien doesn’t get that many chances to play with someone and if Sherlock is willing… well, he supposes he might as well let them enjoy each other’s company for the moment.

“He’s a delightful boy,” Lestrade says suddenly, startling him. “He has your brother wrapped around his little finger already.”

Mycroft can’t help the fond smile that comes unbidden to his lips, although he’s reluctant to acknowledge the other man’s words, continuing staring at the door through which his brother and son disappeared instead.

Behind him, he can hear the pirate Captain sigh, but he still refuses to turn. “He’s full of energy too. Probably in a serious need of a playmate,” the tone is teasing, but there’s some bitterness slipping in. “You wouldn’t want for the age difference to be as big as the one between you and Sherlock.”

Mycroft sighs, slowing turning around to face his companion. “I doubt there’ll be any more children,” he says calmly, detachedly. He’s certainly not planning on sleeping with his wife and if she ever found someone she’d actually want...  well, he wouldn’t mind, naturally, but arrangements would need to be made and any other potential children born of said affair is something they certainly haven’t planned for.

His companion is watching him closely, a curious expression on his face that Mycroft quickly determines he won’t attempt to interpret. The room feels suddenly too suffocating, but he fears he won’t be able to make a dignified exit right now and so his pride holds him in place.

“I… I meant to write,” Gre-- no,  _ Captain  _ Lestrade says and Mycroft can’t help the scoff that escapes him right away. “I really meant to!” the other man argues, standing up and approaching him, and it takes every bit of Mycroft’s self control not to flee the room. “But even if I had… it wouldn’t have mattered at all, would it?” he asks, his tone bitter and Mycroft scoffs once again, annoyed by the implications but not sure he can contradict them without giving away the truth.

“I guess we’ll never know now, will we?” he says, stepping further into the room, heading for his wine cabinet, figuring that’s a good way of escaping the other man’s closeness. No such luck, it turns out, because Lestrade follows him, stilling his hand before he can begin pouring himself a glass of wine.

“Mycroft,” he says, softly, gently,  _ lovingly  _ in that tone of his that always made Mycroft’s knees go weak. “Please. I just-- I didn’t mean to leave like that. If I could go back in time--”

Mycroft pulls away, making a face. “Don’t,” he sentences darkly, pouring himself that drink and almost emptying his cup in one gulp. “Don’t lie to me.”

“It’s not a lie,” Lestrade says and he sounds so eager, so honest that Mycroft has a hard time holding his ground, clinging onto his hurt. “I loved you. No, in fact, I still love you. No matter what.”

“I’m afraid this is one of those cases where actions speak louder than words,” Mycroft declares, refusing to look at his companion, his heart beating painfully inside his chest.

“Indeed,” Lestrade murmurs after a beat, tone full of bitterness and contained rage. “Am I to understand our relationship meant nothing to you, seeing you got a girl pregnant not even a month after I left?”

“ _ You  _ left me,” Mycroft hisses, tossing his cup to the floor, uncaring of the mess it’ll make, too angry to think properly. “You’re the one who left, so don’t you dare to blame this on me,” he says angrily, approaching the other man, the rage and hurt he’s been carrying all this years getting the best of him. 

“I had no choice!” the Captain exclaims, throwing his arms into the air, sounding tired and defeated. “I was a wanted man, if I had stayed--”

“I know that!” Mycroft snaps angrily. “But you didn’t even let me know! Somehow, you managed to make time to inform my brother you were leaving, so he could join you if he so wished, but couldn’t spare a second to leave me a bloody note after sleeping in my bed! By the gods, Gregory, I know I told you I dislike being woken up, but didn’t it occur you I might have made an exception on such a case? Or couldn’t you at least left a note on the bedside table? Anything really would have been better than waking up to an empty bed and just learning what had happened to you when my mother stormed into my house, demanding to know why I had let Sherlock run away with some pirate!”

He’s out of breath by the time he has finished talking, torn between anger and pain. These last five years have been hellish, he’ll admit that much and if it wasn’t for the very welcome distraction of Anthea and her child, he has no idea what he’d have done with himself.

“Mycroft,” Lestrade says after a brief pause, reaching for him hesitantly. “I didn’t mean-- I had made plans with Sherlock, in case I needed to leave in a rush. He wanted to come and I didn’t oppose to the idea, so I let him knew-- but I… I know I should have told you. But I didn’t want to wake you up, because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to leave if I talked to you and I… I didn’t… I’m sorry.”

Mycroft huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to hold back his tears. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to let you go, either,” he confesses softly, the words tumbling down from his lips before he can think better of them. “I wanted… I would have gone with you, if had told me.”

A sharp intake of breath is his only answer and he has to look away. He’s not adventurous man, not like his brother and he’d probably have hated every minute they were abroad, but he would have done it anyway, if it meant being with his Gregory.

“Oh darling, I-- I didn’t--” he’s now at his side, close enough to touch and yet neither dares to, even though every instinct in his body is urging him to. “I accepted this ridiculous deal for you. Because I wanted to come back to you. And to think-- oh, Mycroft, I’m so sorry.”

But sorry doesn’t quite cut it, does it? “It doesn’t matter,” he says, hugging himself. “Not anymore.”

To hell with his pride. He can not stand being in this man’s presence for another second, not without risking doing something foolish.

So he turns around and flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> As I said, this was supposed to end with a big declaration on both of their parts and Greg finally learning Mycroft didn’t get over him in a blink of an eye (although it’s evident that’s not the case, right?) but… well. This seemed like a more natural direction to go.  
> And as I said before, Greg’s explanation for his abrupt leave isn’t the best, but I don’t think it’s impossible either? It’s not like he was thinking very clearly, with the threat of getting hanged and all that ;)  
> I have no idea where this is going to go now, since this wasn’t the original plan, but hopefully I’ll get the boys to talk again soon. I really think Mycroft should be the one telling Greg the truth of why he married Anthea, but if that doesn’t work out… well, someone will, eventually :P  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Hope you’ll enjoy it! ;)

“I must say, I admire your commitment to being miserable for the rest of your life.”

Mycroft sighs, putting his papers down and turning to greet the newcomer. Anthea stands at the study’s entrance, hands on her hips, frowning but with a look of determination on her face and Mycroft can tell already he’s not going to like this “conversation.”

“My dear,” he says, in his best sugary tone, the kind he uses when he needs to persuade some politician who’s being too stubborn. “While I appreciate your… commitment to helping me find happiness, I assure you I’m perfectly happy with the way things currently are.”

“Are you?” she questions, strolling into the room with long confident steps. “Because it doesn’t seem that way to me.”

“Don’t be silly,” he argues, looking away, realizing he can not hold her stare when she’s looking at him like that; not when he’s lying in any case. “I have a lovely wife and an healthy son. What else could I want?”

Anthea rolls her eyes dramatically, placing her hands on his desk and leaning forward. “Oh, I don’t know. How about someone you actually loved?”

“Anthea, you do not suggest--”

“I know you care for me,” she interrupts sharply. “And I know you love my son. And while I know you’ve made your peace with our current situation, I also know you’re nowhere near happy. Content, maybe, but not happy.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, leaning back on his seat, needing to put more distance between them. “As you said, I’ve made my peace with the situation,” he says slowly, carefully measuring his words. “I will not allow someone to steal my peace of mind once again.”

“You love him,” Anthea insists. “Why must you be so stubborn?”

“Let me ask you a question then,” he says, growing angry, standing up abruptly. “If Adrien’s father showed up, would you take him back with open arms?” It’s a low blow, he knows it, but Anthea takes it all in a stride.

“It’s a different situation and you know it,” she deadpans. “He chose to leave me.”

“And Gregory chose not to contact me,” Mycroft fires back. “I don’t think--”

“I’m not saying that what he did was right,” Anthea interrupts him once more. “But he came back for you. He gave up everything he once held dear for the chance of seeing you again. Do you imagine this new life is something he would have chosen for himself? Do you imagine he likes it?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know his mind,” Mycroft argues, knowing he’s quickly losing this discussion. “I only know that five years is an awful long time to start trying to make amends.”

Anthea opens her mouth to reply, but a soft cry coming from upstairs has her closing it right away, looking upwards. Mycroft is looking upwards too, heading for the door shortly after, Anthea hot on his heels.

“Our conversation is far from over,” she informs him very seriously once they’ve made it to Adrien’s bedroom, making sure the boy is just asleep, although having a nightmare. Mycroft nods solemnly and his companion picks up the boy, murmuring soft nonsense, waking him up gently, promising him everything will be alright.

Mycroft watches in silence, hugging Adrien too when the boy reaches for him. He did not lie to Anthea earlier, not really. He’s certainly not unhappy and he’ll be perfectly content with spending the rest of his life like this.

And yet--

* * *

 

“Another invitation?” Sherlock asks, taking the short note from him, rereading it. He’s frowning and, to be completely honest, Greg doesn’t blame him, since he’s confused by the note’s contents too.

“It’s… odd, is it not?” Greg asks, earning himself a nod from his companion.

“My dear sister-in-law seems oddly committed to finding her husband a lover. I wonder why?” Greg blushes at Sherlock’s words, but of course the younger man doesn’t notice, carrying on undeterred. “The more logical explanation would be she’s having an affair too, but there’s nothing that suggest--”

“Sherlock, that’s not--”

“Oh, please. Anthea was perfectly aware of the nature of yours and Mycroft’s relationship, she can not honestly be trying just to get you two to rekindle your  _ friendship.  _ There’s something else at play here and I intend to find out what.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Suit yourself then,” he says, dropping himself back on his seat, covering his face with his arm. God, how he hates sitting idle, particularly when his mind is such a mess of conflicted thoughts and emotions, but there’s little he can do about that.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Sherlock demands and that’s when Greg notices he has grabbed his coat and is staring at him expectantly.

“Excuse me?” he asks, feeling completely wrong footed and the younger man rolls his eyes dramatically.

“We’re going to my brother’s,” Sherlock announces, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Go on, get your coat so we can leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere!” Greg argues, crossing his arms over his chest stubbornly, glaring at his companion. “You’re free to go as you please, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock huffs, pulling him by his arm rather insistently. “This is beneath you, Lestrade! A man your age shouldn’t be behaving like a toddler.”

“I’m not-- no, Sherlock, let go, I’m not-- Sherlock!”

Normally, Greg would eventually let Sherlock pull him onto his feet, but not today. Today he feels like just sulking in peace, so he doesn’t budge, resisting until his companion finally tires. 

“Fine!” Sherlock declares, glaring. “Do as you please!” And with that he’s out of the house, making sure the slam the front door on his way out, making Greg rolls his eyes.

Those Holmes and their dramatic attics.

Why did Greg ever thought them endearing?

* * *

 

“Where’s Lestrade?” Anthea demands to know, when Sherlock shows up at her door not even twenty minutes later. He shrugs non committedly and she rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh well, all for the best I suppose. Mycroft practically fleed the house when I mentioned I had sent you a note.”

“Alright, out with it already,” Sherlock demands, once the door has closed after him. “What’s this obsession of yours with getting my brother back with his ex lover?”

The woman glares, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have no nefarious scheme, as you’re probably imagining,” she states calmly, or as calmly as she can. “I just want him to be happy.”

“Funny way to go about that,” Sherlock says, staring at her intently, trying to read the truth in her expression, but as usual, Anthea is very good at hiding what she’s thinking. “Most wives just make their husbands nice dinners and keep their beds warm.”

“Well, since I’m a terrible cook and I’m doing very little on the bedwarming department--”

“Wait, what?” Sherlock interrupts. “But you-- you-- how did you--” he gestures widely at her abdomen and Anthea rolls her eyes once more. Pieces are finally falling into their rightful places though and so Sherlock’s eyes go wide as he begins to understand what exactly has happened in these last five years. “Oh,” he says softly.

“ _ Oh, _ indeed,” she says. “So, now that you’ve been assured my intentions are pure… will you help me?”

Sherlock blinks, still processing the newest revelation but a sharp nudge from his companion brings him back to the present. “Oh, right. Right, I’ll-- yes, of course.”

Anthea smiles, the sort of smile Sherlock learned to fear long ago. “Good. Because I have a plan.”

Sherlock nods, smirking, not convinced Anthea’s plan might be the best way to get his brother and Lestrade back together, but convinced it’ll be amusing to watch, at the very least.

And Sherlock has always been all for being entertained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> With those two plotting against them, Greg and Mycroft stand no chance, naturally and so I’m thinking we have another chapter to go, two at most ;)   
> Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the final chapter! I must confess it feels a little off, but I have no idea why…  
> Well, I hope you’ll enjoy it regardless!

It occurs Greg, perhaps a tad belatedly, that he’s been lead into a trap.

Years of being a pirate, constantly being on his toes, knowing any slip might cost him dearly had given him (rather reasonably, he thought) a healthy sense of paranoia. Studying people’s motivations had become second nature and he always prided himself on that sixth sense of his that always seemed to alert him something wasn’t quite right.

In his defense though, one does not expect your first mate to lead you into a trap. Or maybe you do, when your first mate is a sneaky, power-hungry, without one ounce of honour bastard, but certainly not when your first mate is like a brother to you.

Greg curses internally, looking around the room trying not to betray his panic as he desperately searches for any means of escape. He’s not very hopeful, truth to be told, but he supposes he must try, at the very least.

“It’s useless,” Mycroft informs him very calmly and how can he be so calm, really? Greg spares a quick glance in his direction but regrets it almost immediately, so he turns around and continues examining the room slowly. “Don’t you think I looked around for a way to escape earlier?”

It’s very likely he did, Greg must admit and if Mycroft couldn’t find the way out of this neat little tramp, it’s unlikely Greg will. Still-- “Under which ruse did my dear brother brought you here?” Mycroft asks calmly, standing up on unsteady legs. The ship might be ashore, but it moves a little all the same and it seems the soft movement isn’t making his companion any favours.

“Easy there,” Greg says, grabbing him by the arm, studying him. Mycroft doesn’t pull away, not right away anyway, but Greg refuses to think overly much of it: he’s probably too distracted by the rocking of the ship to concern himself with who is helping him. “Sherlock said Admiral Watson wanted us to check out our new ship.” Greg says, after a brief pause. “What about you?”

“I’m afraid my dear wife has found my stack of sleeping pills,” Mycroft says, scrunching his nose in displeasure. “I had thought I had taken better care of hiding them.”

At the mention of Mycroft’s wife, Greg has to take a few steps away, turning around so he’s not facing the other man. His heart has clenched painfully inside his chest, but he refuses to acknowledge the pain. “Bit childish, don’t you think? Locking us up in a room where we have little hope of escaping on our own.”

Mycroft hums. “Perhaps, but one can’t deny it’s effective.” He closes his eyes, leaning against the wall. “Good, must this thing rock so?” 

Greg chuckles good naturedly, shaking his head. “Good thing you didn’t come with me after all,” he says, without thinking. “It’s even worse out in the open sea.” It’s the wrong thing to say, he knows, but it’s too late to take it back.

His companion has frozen on the spot, still holding onto the wall as if for dear life. “I suppose I’d have gotten used to it eventually,” he says finally, voice a barely audible murmur. “Love can conquer it all and all that,” he murmurs, closing his eyes.

“Yes,” Greg agrees softly, avoiding his companion’s eyes.

“The Captain’s quarters seem comfortable, at least,” Mycroft continues after a tense pause, eyes open once more, looking around the room but not really  _ seeing.  _ “And the company would probably have helped too.”

“They weren’t so luxurious at my ship,” Greg murmurs, looking around himself, trying not to make a face as he imagines sailing on this monstrosity, surrounded by so many unnecessary things. “The bed was comfortable, though.”

Mycroft’s lips curve on a bitter smile. “I have no doubt about that,” he murmurs venomously. “I assume it was rarely empty too.”

“Now, that’s unfair,” Greg says, growing annoyed. “You’re the one who got married and had a child,” he continues, rounding up on his companion, glaring darkly. “I’ll have you know I spent five years sleeping on a very cold, very lonely bed with nothing but memories to keep me company.”

“And whose fault is that?” Mycroft spits, glaring too. “My situation wasn’t much better, I’ll have you know.”

Greg snorts, throwing his arms upwards in frustration. “Of course. You’re telling me you haven’t been sharing your bed with your lovely wife?” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Depends on your definition of sharing my bed,” Mycroft says with a little shrug. “Not that it’s any of your business, of course.”

Greg stares, confused by the other man’s words. “Whatever you mean?” he asks, his heart fluttering inside his chest, alight with hope. But no, he reminds himself, Mycroft has a wife and a kid, so he can not possibly mean--

Mycroft sighs, running his fingers through his hair, heading back for the bed. “I need to sit down,” he murmurs sourly, sitting primly on the bed, one leg crossed over the other and the image shouldn’t send a thrill down Greg’s spine, but it does. “And I suppose I must explain. I doubt we’ll be allowed to leave the room otherwise.”

Greg frowns, but nods, torn between holding onto his anger or allowing this fluttering hope to continue growing. “I’m listening,” he states plainly, taking a seat on one of the chairs.

Mycroft sighs, looking tired and despondent.

But he starts talking all the same.

* * *

 

The words pour out of him without any filter, all the hurt and anger he’s been enduring for these last few years rushing out. Mycroft hadn’t been planning on saying half of the things he does, but he’s tired and frustrated and he really wants to get out of this damned ship before he does something embarrassing (like puking his guts out) and that’s not happening unless he and Gregory  _ talk.  _

Of course Anthea hadn’t quite said that, but he had hoped that getting them to talk had been her (their?) intention. Otherwise he’s not sure what he’ll do.

By the time he’s done, he’s not quite sure how many hours have they been; time has become a vague concept. Gregory is still standing in front of him, not quite facing him, evidently lost in his own thoughts.

Mycroft closes his eyes, taking deep breaths through his nose. The nausea hasn’t gotten any better, really, but the talking had helped distract him and the urge to throw up hadn’t been as pressing as it is now.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier, telling me all this the moment I came back?” Gregory asks finally and Mycroft huffs, annoyed.

“As usual, you’ve failed to see the point,” he argues, letting himself lay down on the bed, eyes tightly closed. “I was deeply hurt. I wanted to hurt you just as badly.”

“By letting me think you hadn’t loved me.”

He has no right to sound so heartbroken, no right at all. “As you had done.”

His companion sighs and Mycroft can hear his feet approaching, but he dares not to open his eyes. It’s a little better like this, he thinks and it occurs him that locking him up in a damn ship was a good move on Anthea’s part: she knew he’d be too focused on not throwing up to properly watch his words.

“I must ask,” Gregory says, sitting next to him, pressing a hand against his forehead, as if checking for fever. “Did you love me? Do you love me still?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft argues, annoyed. “Can you honestly not tell?”

A hum is his only answer for the longest while, Gregory’s fingers carding through his hair, lulling him. “I love you,” Gregory murmurs, so softly that Mycroft wonders if he only imagined it, particularly when he doesn’t say anything else for the longest time, but he keeps his eyes closed, listening in absolute silence. “And I told you before, I’ve been abominable to your heart, my dear, but I do think I’ve paid my penance, don’t you?”

Mycroft shrugs non committedly. “I wanted to-- I was angry at you and I wished to cling to that anger, but I must confess I find it most difficult when you happen to be around,” he murmurs. “It was much easier when you were miles and miles away.”

His companion hums once more and a pair of lips press themselves against his cheek. “Where do we go from here?”

“I do not know,” Mycroft confesses softly. “I think-- I am a married man, after all. But you’re no longer a wanted man and I suppose that should count for something.”

“And considering your wife was quite bent on setting us up… I do not think she’ll have any real objections?”

Mycroft huffs. “You presume entirely too much, Captain Lestrade. I have agreed to restart our…  _ association _ , but nothing more.” He opens his eyes, staring at his companion’s eyes directly, seeing the love reflected in them and he can’t help to smile. “At least for the moment.”

“It’s a start,” Gregory agrees, smiling too. “Now, you’re looking a little green so what do you say if we find a way to get out of here, huh?”

Mycroft nods and promptly regrets it. “Might be wise. Could you inform our dear captors that we’ve done as they wanted and we’re ready to leave?”

“I can try,” Gregory says with a smile, standing up and going to pound on the door, yelling for Anthea and Sherlock to let them out. It’s not terribly dignified, Mycroft thinks, but he finds himself smiling all the same.

He might not approve of his brother’s or his wife’s meddling, but he must admit something good came of this.

Thank god they’re even more stubborn than himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I feel like something doesn’t feel quite right; it might be because it’s a bit of an open ending which I still don’t like that much, but perhaps I’m missing something? Thoughts anyone?  
> Anyway, as usual, a million thanks for reading, leaving kudos and/or commenting! Let me know what you thought?

**Author's Note:**

> So, thoughts anyone? It’s going to be a short story, because I have way too many WIPs in my hands, but hopefully it’ll be an enjoyable tale. May I promise a happy ending? I swear to god it’ll all work out in the end :P  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?
> 
> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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